


Watershed

by HakeberHooligan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Someone gets the Bite, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23703337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakeberHooligan/pseuds/HakeberHooligan
Summary: Everyone has a handful of moments that changes their lives forever. A jagged line that separates memories into Before and After. For Stiles, he has two.The first is December 9th, nine years ago. The day his mom died. Not the day she got sick, or the day she was admitted to the hospital. The day she passed from living to dead was the day that truly ripped his world in two.July 27th is the day that severs his life into three parts, the day that gives him his second before and after.-OR-When two strangers come knocking on Stiles' door, they unlock an unknown part of his past, changing his life forever.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 6
Kudos: 248
Collections: Secret Steter BFFs





	Watershed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsRidcully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRidcully/gifts).



> For the Lovely Miss R! I was so excited to get you for the exchange <3
> 
> Prompts:  
> And they had to share a bed, Enemies to friends to lovers, Someone gets the bite
> 
> I tried to incorporate all three! I hope you enjoy : )

Everyone has a handful of moments that changes their lives forever. A jagged line that separates memories into  _ Before  _ and  _ After.  _ For Stiles, he has two.

The first is December 9th, nine years ago. The day his mom died. Not the day she got sick, or the day she was admitted to the hospital. The day she passed from living to dead was the day that truly ripped his world in two.

July 27th is the day that severs his life into three parts, the day that gives him his  _ second _ before and after. Who he was before July 27th is a different person than who he will become. 

It all starts on a lazy Sunday, with Stiles and his dad enjoying whatever sport is being televised. Enjoying the summer before he moves several hours away to attend his first year at Stanford.

A knock at the door has both of them leaning forward to stand.

“I got it Pops,” Stiles says, waving a hand at his dad to get him to settle back in his chair. His dad leans back and kicks his feet up, popping open his bottle of beer.

Stiles walks through the archway between the living room and the foyer, opening the door without looking. This isn’t the kind of town where you have to do that sort of thing. Beacon Hills is safe, and everyone knew that this was the Sheriff’s home.

A man and a woman stand on the porch, both about his dad’s age. The man has piercing blue eyes, stubble, and Stiles doesn’t miss the hint of steel strapped underneath his jacket. As for the woman, she has a severe, stern look about her. But there’s something familiar as well…

“Mieczysław,” she says brightly - _perfectly_ - before holding out her hand. “I’m Victoria.”

“Um…” Stiles stares at her face, feeling his heart clench painfully. Because she looks an awful lot like-

“No.” His father’s voice right behind him startles Stiles. He hadn’t heard him get up. “No, Argent.”

His father is angry, there’s no denying it. The sharp edge to his voice means that he’s containing a firestorm of rage that’s brewing under the surface. Stiles has heard that tone a few times before, but only elicited it twice.

“It’s time, John.” The man says.

Stiles looks from his dad to the two strangers, confused and worried.

“Dad, what-”

“Go to your room, Stiles.”

“But I-”

“Your room.  _ Now.” _

Stiles is legally an adult, and sure, he’s a little hellion that pushes his father’s limits now and then, but this is not a John Stilinski that’s to be trifled with.

Stiles swallows hard and does as he’s told without complaint. He looks at the strangers once more, the woman with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, a familiar crinkle to them that Stiles knows well. The man, tall and stoic with a sharp gaze that makes Stiles want to squirm.

He walks up the stairs two at a time and closes his door behind him. He then immediately throws himself on the floor to listen through the crack.

He can only pick up bits and pieces, and it’s frustrating.

“Not going…  _ my son.” _

“... no choice… birthright.”

“Please… what Claudia…”

“My wife never… she protected…”

“Let him decide… deserves… truth.”

Stiles hears the front door slam shut and curses under his breath. His dad most likely stepped out onto the porch with them. He stands and turns, intent on listening through his window. 

He nearly screams when he comes face-to-face with a man. His eye catches the open window behind them, screen slashed open. He would have noticed it first thing, had he not been so eager to eavesdrop.

The man grins at him with strange pointed teeth, and a red glow rings his irises.

“Scream, and I’ll-”

Stiles doesn’t let the man finish. He lets loose a holler like his life depends on it. It probably does. The man snarls, and the last thing Stiles remembers is being hit across the face.

\- - -

He groans when he comes to, groggy and achy and confused. He lifts his head, and his neck protests with sharp stabs of pain. He gasps and goes to grab at it, but he can’t. His hands are bound behind him.

That’s when panic starts to seep in.

His head is pounding, but he opens his eyes and looks around, ignoring the pain that flares in his neck and the right side of his face. He’s nearly blind in the darkness of wherever he is. He’s tied to a chair, he thinks. 

Moonlight filters in through a dirty window, swathing him in dusky light. The scent of stale, burnt wood makes him want to sneeze.

Two glowing orbs flare to life in a corner cloaked in darkness. He gasps, remembering now. The man in his room. The two strangers on his doorstep.

He doesn’t scream this time, his head hurts too much. Tears spring from the corners of his eyes and he starts shaking uncontrollably.

He swallows down the thick lump in his throat.

“Who are you?” His voice wavers. He hates how small he sounds.

“You, little Srebro, are quite a handful, aren’t you?” His voice is nasally, and the English accent gives his words a lilt.

_ Srebro.  _ His heart clenches when he hears the surname. His mother’s maiden name. Despite the terror that runs through his veins, his curiosity piques.

“You knew my mother?”

“Your mother? No. I knew her father, though, I slashed his throat with my own claws.” The words send a chill through Stiles. “I thought the Srebro line ended there, with his cooling blood on my hands. Little did I know, his wife bore twins, two girls. Your mother, and her sister.”

Stiles’ head spins. Mom was an only child. Her father died before she was born, a terrible accident in a factory. Or so he was told.

“I don’t… I don’t believe you,” he says, pulling hard against the ropes that bind him. A bubble of rage burns deep in his chest.

“Oh, believe me or don’t. It doesn’t matter.” The glowing set of eyes wander, moving to his left. He follows the movement, ignoring the protest his aching neck gives. “But you can’t deny how that woman looked like her, sounded like her.”

Fresh tears flow, tracking down his face.

“Why? What do you want?” He asks, eager to speak about something else. He can’t bear thinking about a betrayal so big that his mother would lie about having a sister.

“I intend to finish what I started all those years ago. Your bloodline was meant to end with your grandfather. Victoria and you are loose ends that I will sever.”

Stiles’ heartbeat goes into overdrive. He fights down the panic attack clawing up his throat, threatening to overwhelm him and pull him under. This man just said in no uncertain terms that he plans on  _ killing  _ Stiles.

A loud bang jumps him.

“Ah, that must be dear Auntie now,” The man drawls. Stiles follows the glowing eyes, watching them disappear before he hears a door close. 

Stiles doesn’t waste any time. He pulls at the ropes again, feeling where he’s tied and testing for any slack. He’s tied pretty decently, his hands bound to the sides of the chair, rope around his chest holding him to the back, and his legs tied down against the legs. But he can tell from the texture of the chair that it’s wooden. There’s a slight wiggle to it, and he knows that it must be old.

He hears shouting. Gunfire sounds shortly after, the flash of them blinking through the window and lighting up the room in bursts.

He’s takes a deep breath, silently praying that he doesn’t break a bone. Then he plants his feet on the ground and hops. It’s a small jump, almost sending him toppling over.

More shouting. Someone screams.

He does it again, with as much force as he can muster. One of the front legs snaps, and he pulls his leg free, catching himself before he falls. He hobbles over to the nearby wall, swinging his body sideways to hit the chair. It breaks into multiple pieces, the worn wood unable to withstand such rough treatment.

He’s amazed that other than some painful bumps that will surely bruise, he hasn’t hurt himself. The throb in his head has dulled, most likely the work of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He pulls the ropes off of himself, careful not to step on any wood splinters. He takes a large chunk of the chair with him, holding it like a bat, and walks out of the room.

He’s in some sort of old, dilapidated house. The floorboards creak with his every movement. The gunfire outside stops, and He can hear his father’s voice. His heart leaps and he takes off, running through the house, down an old set of stairs and out the front door.

His dad and the man from earlier stand with their backs to the house, guns drawn at the man who took him. He has Victoria in his grasp, his front to her back, long nails digging into her neck.

He looks… not human. There’s short hair all over his face, and his ears are long and tipped. His brow is thick and set in a permanent scowl. His teeth are predatory.

“Try to kill me, and you’ll be dead before my heart takes its last beat,” Victoria growls, wincing in pain. Her voice is strong though, unwavering and full of dark promise.

The man thing throws its head back and laughs. It’s a deep, gravelly noise, not quite human. It makes Stiles’ hackles rise.

“Kill you? You don’t deserve a clean death,” He says. Stiles watches, frozen, as the man buries his teeth deep in her shoulder.

“NO!” The other man yells, firing his gun.

Stiles can’t believe it. This creature has what he assumes is this man’s wife in his clutches, and yet the dude fired at him anyways. He could have easily hit Victoria.

Fortunately, the bullet buries itself deep in the man’s shoulder. He howls in pain, a noise that chills Stiles to the bone, and shoves Victoria forward, making a hasty escape to the trees. His dad tracks him with his gun, but doesn’t shoot.

“You had the shot. Why didn’t you take it?!” The man snarls at his father before moving to help Victoria up.

“I’m not a killer, Chris,” his father growls back.

“Dad?” Stiles asks in a broken voice. He thinks he’s safe now, and the weight of everything comes crashing down on him. His dad spins around so fast, he almost loses his footing.

“Son, I thought-” he runs up to Stiles and wraps him in a crushing embrace. Stiles chokes on a sob, knees giving out. His father follows him down until they’re sitting on the grass, holding each other.

\- - -

Werewolves.

That’s what the man - Deucalion - was. A fucking  _ werewolf.  _ And these two strangers? Chris and Victoria Argent. Victoria used to be Sebro until they married. It’s all true. She really is his mother’s twin, making them his aunt and uncle.

Deucalion isn’t dead. He’ll be back. Stiles doesn’t want to wait for that to happen. Chris is of the same mind.

“No, Stiles,” His dad says angrily. “You can’t… your mother didn’t want you to live that life, to even  _ know  _ that things like Deucalion existed. It’s not safe.”

“No Dad, it’s not. Which is why I need to learn how to protect myself.” Stiles doesn’t mention that he’s itching to learn the knowledge, to see what else he thought was myth is actually reality. He knows his father can see that hunger in his eyes. Knows that Stiles won’t let it go.

His dad throws Chris a dirty look. Victoria is with a friend, being patched up. It’s just the three of them.

He turns back to Stiles.

“I can’t lose you too,” He says in a broken voice. It’s a tone that kills Stiles every time he hears it. The tone that means he’s thinking about his mom, missing her like she just died yesterday instead of nine years prior.

“I know, Dad.” Stiles hugs him fiercely. “I can’t lose you either. This is why I have to do this.”

\- - -

Victoria dies several days later. No, she  _ kills herself.  _ It’s a stark reality that Stiles wasn’t prepared for. Apparently, hunters under  _ no  _ circumstances can become what they hunt. Not even if it was accidental. Deucalion knew that, and his words make more sense now.

“This is bullshit,” Stiles had said to Chris, hours before it happened.

Chris had only continued to clean the gun she would eventually use to off herself, his gaze cold and distant. Stiles shouted some more, not that it had done any good.

He doesn’t even particularly  _ like  _ Victoria. She’s everything his mother isn’t. It’s like Claudia inherited all of the warm traits, leaving Victoria with nothing but ice. Still, she’s the last living relative of hers. It hurts in ways he didn’t realize losing a person he barely knows would.

After she’s gone, Chris doesn’t waste any time. Doesn’t grieve, or at least Stiles doesn’t see it. In the short time he’s known Chris and Victoria, he didn’t feel romantic love between the two. He kind of got the sense that their relationship was political, but he could tell that they were still close.

Chris spends the next month training Stiles. They’re going to hunt Deucalion down, but not until Stiles can defend himself. His training is put first and forefront, at an accelerated speed.

They go to a house in Northern California, a place where new hunters can be trained. Stiles dubs it  _ The Academy.  _ Chris said that there’s usually a handful of new recruits, but they’ve been the only ones other than the odd hunter spending the night to restock and rest up.

Stiles isn’t completely helpless. He’s been to multiple self-defense classes as a cop’s son, and he’s not too shabby with a firearm either.

All of his previous training means shit to Chris. He spends his time berating Stiles’ style, his execution, and his ability. He’s kind of a shitty teacher, and by the end of the month Stiles is at his wits end with the man.

“You need to focus, Stiles. You aren’t trying,” Chris says from where he’s perched on Stiles’ back after pinning him to the mat for the fourth time.

Stiles grits his teeth and tries unsuccessfully to twist his wrists out of the man’s unyielding grasp.

“I would be fine if you weren’t such a fucking shit teacher,” he snaps. He didn’t mean to say it, but the frustrating afternoon has his tongue loose.

Chris pushes up off him, and Stiles follows suit, standing up and rubbing his aching wrists.

“Deucalion doesn’t give a damn about your training,” Chris says. His tone is even, but Stiles has learned to pick out the underlying, simmering rage beneath his words. If he’s not careful, he’ll push Chris over the edge. Training is always… unpleasant after that.

“I’m trying, man. I don’t know what else you want from me.” He works hard to keep his own voice even, working his jaw to keep extra words from spilling forth.

“I want you to be  _ better,  _ Stiles. You’re the last of the Srebro line, and if Deucalion has his way, he’ll sever that line before the year is out.”

Stiles doesn’t need the reminder that a fucking  _ werewolf  _ is after his head. It still irks him, even though this past month has felt more like several.

“It’s 3:45. I’m done for the day.” Stiles turns around, walking towards the door to the hallway.

“Training goes until 4, Stiles. I’m not done with you.”

He doesn’t stop or turn around.

“Well I’m done.”

He hears movement a second before he feels the impact. He starts to turn, but he isn’t fast enough. Chris has ducked low and grabbed him by the waist, taking him down to the mat.  _ Hard.  _ Stiles lands awkwardly and feels the air leave his lungs. He gasps for breath, flipping to his back.

Chris is sitting low on his legs, stopping him from being able to buck him off. He scrabbles at his arms, angry and upset. Chris slaps his hands away easily enough, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head.

Stiles is left breathing heavily, willing his lungs to regulate. Chris’ face is inches from his, his intense glare all Stiles can see.

“I said we aren’t done,” Chris says into his face.

Something flares up in Stiles. The frustration, the anger, the confusion, all of it. He bellows into Chris’ face, snapping his head forward and connecting his forehead with Chris’ nose. Chris is stunned, reeling back and loosening his hold. Stiles pulls his left hand free and punches Chris across the face, kicking out at the same time. Chris falls backwards off of him, and he leaps back to his feet.

“Don’t  _ ever  _ fucking do that again,” Stiles whispers, rage making his voice quiet. “You don’t own me. I’m here of my own free will. I will walk out of that fucking door and deal with Deucalion myself.”

Chris stands up, pinching his bleeding nose. He stares Stiles in the eye, working his jaw in circles to assess the damage. Eventually, he nods. 

Satisfied that he won’t be attacked again, Stiles turns without another word and leaves the room.

He fucking  _ hates  _ it here.

\- - -

Hunting with Chris… isn’t easy. He’s definitely one of the best in the business, and Stiles respects that. But he’s distant. Unyielding. Always pointing out where you went wrong, and never praising what you did right.

There’s a tension between them. Stiles abhors it. Chris is his uncle; he’s supposed to support Stiles. Not tear him down at every turn.

In September, Stiles gets bitten by a wendigo. Chris had patched him up without bedside manner, berating him the entire time.

October, they hunt a rogue Alpha who’s been killing civilians. Due to Stiles’ supposed negligence, Chris receives a nasty slash to his shoulder.

November, a witch casts a curse on both of them. They’re unable to talk without shouting for three days.

That one was kind of comical. Chris didn’t think so.

By the beginning of the new year, Stiles feels like a seasoned hunter. It’s only been a handful of months, yet he can’t recall how he functioned before. Every stranger is a potential enemy. Every noise in the night could be their next threat. Deucalion is still out there, even if the trail has run cold.

Somehow, Stiles and Chris work. Chris doesn’t hide the fact that Stiles gets on his nerves, and Stiles is very vocal about his feelings on Chris being an asshole. Still, their hunts are successful and they make a great team.

Sometimes, Chris unwinds just enough for Stiles to really enjoy his company. There’s bars across the country, ones that are havens for hunters, that Stiles can get into without fuss. He’s only just turned nineteen, but they don’t treat him any different.

Him and Chris will share some drinks, Chris with dark ale and Stiles with hard cider, and Chris will talk. He talks about Victoria, about previous hunts, about his piece-of-shit father who he hasn’t spoken to in years.

Stiles talks too. About his mom, his dad, silly little memories past. Sometimes, he’ll even make Chris laugh. He perks up the first time he hears the forgein noise, eager to elicit it again.

All in all, his uncle isn’t such a bad guy. 

You know, sometimes.

\- - -

A new lead on Deucalion pops up in early April. They’ve been at The Academy for the past few weeks, using the down time to hone Stiles’ craft. He’s feeling confident in his skill. Definitely nowhere near Chris’ artistry, but he’s a decent hunter. He’s saved people. He  _ belongs. _

They waste no time packing up and heading north to Washington state. The weather doesn’t agree with them, and halfway down the dirt path to the safe house nestled deep in the woods, Chris’ Tahoe gets stuck in deep mud.

“My Jeep would have driven through this,” Stiles laments, watching Chris attempt to dig the tire out. They’ve been at this for over an hour now, standing in freezing rain and covered in mud. Maybe moved a few hundred feet in that time. He’s soaked to the bone and just  _ done _ with the whole situation.

“Well we don’t have your hunk of metal. We have my Tahoe. You could  _ help  _ instead of being insufferable.”

When Chris is frustrated, he gets mean. Stiles gets sarcastic. It’s not the best mix.

“Dude, just forget it. Let’s walk the rest of the way, and we can come back for it tomorrow.” Stiles wants to start a fire in the cabin as soon as possible and warm up.

“Fine,” Chris spits, standing up and wrenching the rear door open. He starts to grab his suitcase.

“It’s all gonna get wet, Chris.”

Chris glares at him as if it’s  _ his _ fault that it’s been raining non stop for the last two days. In  _ Washington.  _ During  _ spring.  _

Chris shoves past him with a mutter, stepping up into the underbrush next to the road to skip around the massive mud pit that the road’s become. Stiles follows silently, hunching his shoulders and keeping his head low.

It takes them another hour to reach the cabin, and by then the sun has nearly set and they’re both far more miserable than Stiles would have thought possible. The first thing he does when he steps inside is remove his muddy boots and pants, then makes a beeline for the fireplace. Thankfully, whoever used the cabin last had loaded it up before they left.

Tremors wrack his body as he tries several times to strike the match. Once he does, the fire quickly catches and flares to life. It’s much too small, but it’s the best they’ve got. The cabin is a single room, so it shouldn’t take too long to heat up.

Stiles pulls off the rest of his clothes - save his briefs - and grabs two thick blankets from the linen closet. He sets one next to him and wraps himself up in the other, scooching in close to the warmth and trying to stave off the deep chills that run through his body.

Chris isn’t long behind, holding out a granola bar to Stiles before stripping and wrapping up in his own blanket.

“T-thanks,” Stiles manages. All he gets in reply is a grunt. They eat in silence, shoulder to shoulder, huddled close to the fire.

Chris stops shivering before Stiles does. Stiles has noticed over this past winter that Chris seems to naturally run hot and therefore warms up quicker. Not Stiles. He spent his entire life in Southern California, where the winters rarely dipped below thirty degrees.

When it’s obvious that Stiles’ violent shivers aren’t abating, Chris takes pity on him.

“Here,” He says, lifting his blanket with an arm. Stiles doesn’t hesitate. He’s past embarrassment at this point. He discards his own blanket and shuffles over, tucking under chris’ arm. He grabs what’s now his side of the blanket and wraps it around himself, drawing his knees up in front of himself. Where his and Chris’ skin touch, it feels like fire.

“T-t-thanks,” he repeats, already feeling himself heat up. Chris doesn’t say anything, just tugs on Stiles’ shoulder to draw him in close and lends his warmth.

A burst of affection for Chris swells in his chest. Chris has always been his instructor, his mentor, but he never really felt like  _ family.  _ Is this what having an uncle would have been like? Someone almost like a father, to look out for him when his dad wasn’t there?

As the minutes tick by, the tremors lessen. He finally feels his body begin to relax. His breathing evens. He sticks his feet in front of them, poking them out of the blanket to feel the dry heat of the fire.

When he’s feeling back to normal, he stretches with a wide yawn. They hit the road at 3am this morning, and even though it can’t be much past 7pm, he’s exhausted. Chris lets his arm fall away when Stiles stands.

“I’m gonna go hang our clothes, let them dry. Then I’m hitting the sack.”

Chris nods in agreement. Stiles busies himself hanging their soaked clothes on any available surface. While he does, he notices-

“Hey, why is there only one bed?” He looks around the one-room cabin as if another will magically appear.

“Dibs,” Chris says, standing and stretching, his joints cracking and popping from holding the same position for so long.

“Bullshit!” Stiles exclaims. “What am I gonna do, sleep in a pile of blankets?”

Chris just shrugs and slides into the bed. Stiles mutters to himself, sulking over to the closet. Apparently, the two blankets he grabbed were the only ones. He would practically be sleeping directly on the wood.

_ Fuck that.  _

He finishes hanging their clothes, then walks over to the bed and shoves at Chris.

“Hey!” Chris growls, pushing him back.

“Move the fuck over, old man. I’m not sleeping on the floor like some dog.” Chris doesn’t budge, but that doesn’t stop Stiles. He lifts the blanket and crawls into the bed, making sure to elbow Chris.

“Watch it,” Chris warns.

“Then  _ move over,” _ Stiles hisses. Chris sighs and relents, shuffling over to the far side of the bed. The bed is a double, so there’s  _ just  _ enough space for both of them.

“I’ve seen how you sleep, Stiles. There’s not enough room for both of us.”

“Yeah, because I always have the bed to myself. I know how to  _ share,  _ Chris.” To prove his point he scoots to the edge of the bed, giving Chris all the space he needs. “See? Plenty of room.”

Chris doesn’t look convinced. He does concede though, rolling to his side with his back to Stiles. Stiles lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, listening to rain pattering against the roof and watching the fire paint ever-moving shadows across the ceiling. He falls asleep to the smell of firewood.

\- - -

Sunlight in his eyes rouses him out of his deep sleep early the next morning. He groans and nestles his face deeper into the chin it’s buried under, hugging his companion closer with both the arm and leg he has slung over them. They smell like  _ home. _

“Stiles?” A low, husky voice asks. The body beneath him starts to move, gently struggling to escape.

“Mmm, five more minutes,” he slurs, kissing at the scruffy underjaw and canting his hips forward lazily. 

“Stiles.” The voice is firm. It almost sounds like…

Stiles yelps and pushes himself backwards, falling out of the bed into a tangled heap of blankets.

“Fuck, Chris, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-” Stiles stumbles again, trying to cover his raging hard-on with the blankets, as if he wasn’t just  _ grinding it against Chris’ thigh. _

Chris is sitting up in the bed without any cover, his own boxers barely containing his…  _ similar situation. _ Stiles has never seen his face so red. His blush goes down his neck, and  _ nope nope nope not thinking about that. _

“Stiles, it’s not-”

“Gotta use the bathroom!” Stiles interrupts, an octave too high and a step too loudly. He shuffles backwards and bumps into the kitchenette counter on his way.

“Stiles, settle down and listen to-”

Chris’ words are cut off when Stiles slams the door shut. He leans back against the rough wood and presses the heels of his hand into his eyes, screams silently. What is  _ wrong  _ with him? The dude is his fucking  _ uncle.  _ Sure, he’s not blood-related, but still. To Stiles, he’s family. Family doesn’t  _ rut against family. _

The thing that’s really getting to him though is how much it’s  _ not  _ getting to him. He’s not embarrassed of the situation as much as he is horrified about how much he  _ liked  _ it. Being close to Chris felt… it felt  _ right.  _

Stiles wasn’t blind. Chris was a good-looking dude. He caught himself looking sometimes, before he would mentally chastise himself. Now, feelings and emotions he didn’t know he had for Chris race through his mind.

He stands in the bathroom for a few minutes longer, listening to Chris’ movements in the main living area. He can hear him in the kitchenette, preparing breakfast. He can’t quite face the music yet, so he hops into the small shower stall and washes himself. By the time he’s done, he’s had time to mull it over and feels only slightly better about the situation.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, he pulls his briefs back on and steps out.

Chris doesn’t acknowledge him, but that’s normal. He’s not a morning person and prefers being mute until he’s had his first cup of coffee. Speaking of, Stiles notices a large French press sitting on the counter, filled with grounds and water.

He walks over and pushes the plunger down, filling the two mugs that Chris had set on the counter. He opens the one cabinet above him, pushing around the sparse contents. He finds a bottle of maple syrup and pours some into both mugs before handing one to Chris. Chris silently takes his cup without taking his eyes off of his eggs.

“I just-”

“Please don’t,” Stiles quickly interrupts. “Can we just, never mention the last twenty minutes? Like, ever?”

Chris lets out a sigh of what Stiles assumes is relief.

“Yeah, we can do that.”

“Good.” A part of Stiles  _ does  _ want to talk about, explore what these awakened feelings are, but the greater part of him is going to shove them into a tiny mental box and nail it shut. “So, we eat breakfast, get the Tahoe unstuck and to the cabin, then set up shop. What’s our next move?”

And just like that, they slip into their normal roles. Chris explains the plan, Stiles shits on it, then Chris grudgingly budges an inch to please him. By the time they’ve retrieved the car and unpacked, the elephant in the room is nearly non-existent.

Stiles wants to go into the small neighboring city and poke around, but Chris reminds him that if Deucalion catches their scent, they’ll lose the element of surprise. So instead it’s a long, arduous day of correspondence through email, text, and phone.

Eventually, it becomes a battle to keep his eyes open. His lids are heavy and he’s yawning every few minutes. Chris looks at his wristwatch.

“Okay, it’s nearly 10pm. Let’s call it a night.”

_ “Finally.”  _ Stiles stands and stretches, feeling his joints pop from sitting for so long. All he wants to do is curl up in bed and sleep for at least ten hours.

That’s when he remembers the sleeping arrangement.

“So uh, I guess I’ll sleep on the floor,” He says haltingly. He really doesn’t want to, but it’s preferable to embarrassing himself further.

Chris rolls his eyes, pulling off his jeans and slipping into his pajama bottoms.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fine, really.”

Stiles is surprised with the answer. He thought that Chris would leap at the chance to have the bed to himself, without Stiles rubbing himself all over the dude.

“I’m really okay with-”

“Stiles, get in the damn bed.”

Chris crawls under the covers, moving to the far side and rolling so his back is to Stiles.

Stiles bites his lip, caught in an internal battle. It’s not that big of a deal, right? And they’d agreed to forget what happened this morning. Surely, it won’t happen again. 

Stiles uses the bathroom and strips. Chris might be able to sleep in a t-shirt and pants, but Stiles has always run hot. Just briefs for him.

He delicately lifts the blanket and lays in the bed, keeping as close to the edge as he can without falling out. He can feel the heat of Chris radiating against his bare skin. As he slowly succumbs to sleep, he relaxes, feeling the tenseness seep out of his muscles.

\- - -

Stiles sinks back into the heat behind him, fighting the chill that runs through him. Then his eyes snap open.

Something is poking Stiles in the ass. 

Some _ one  _ is poking Stiles in the ass. 

It’s still dark, and the fire is burning low. The sheets have been kicked off at some point in the night, and the chill of the room makes goosebumps break out over his exposed flesh. Chris is spooning him from behind, a muscled arm slung over him and holding him close.

Stiles swallows thickly and listens to his even breathing. He’s still asleep, unaware that he’s pressing the tip of his  _ very erect cock  _ into Stiles’ left asscheek. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, ignoring his own rapidly filling dick.

“Chris?” He squeaks.

Chris mumbles something, tightening his hold around Stiles and pulling him closer. He sticks his nose into the nape of Stiles’ neck, brushing his nose over the tiny hairs at the base and pressing a soft kiss onto his skin.

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath. His heart races in his chest while thoughts race through his head. He doesn’t want to admit how much he  _ likes  _ this, can’t understand why he would in the first place.

Chris is prickly and grumpy. He’s a pain in Stiles’ ass. He can be mean. Not to mention he’s his  _ uncle. _

But then there’s times, when he lets the visage drop, that he’s likeable. He laughs at Stiles’ stupid jokes. He shines with pride when Stiles does something right. 

He’s never lied to him, never sugarcoated the truth. Cares enough about Stiles to make him push himself until he gets the task right. They’re all each other has had for nearly a year, and they just  _ work. _

Maybe it’s because he’s never been held like this by anyone before. He’s had his few awkward encounters in high school, a kinda-girlfriend and a dude he messed around with, but it didn’t feel like this. Stiles lets himself relax into the arm that cradles him. Chris won’t know that he woke up, was okay with being held by him.

He gingerly reaches down, grabbing the blanket and pulling it back over them. Then he grasps Chris’ hand and holds it close to his chest, intertwining their fingers together. 

\- - -

Stiles wakes up when he feels Chris start to rouse. He stays still, keeps his breathing as even as possible. They’re still in the same position they were in when Stiles woke up late last night. He wants to gauge Chris’ reaction.

He can tell that Chris still isn’t completely lucid, as he drags his nose and lips through the tiny hairs at his nape, same as last night, burying his nose and leaving little kisses. Stiles has to fight the shiver that threatens to travel down his spine, giving away the fact that he’s awake.

He knows the exact moment that Chris fully wakes up. His body stiffens, and he takes a sharp breath.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, delicately extracting himself from Stiles, gently unlacing their fingers and rolling away from him. Stiles silently mourns the loss of body heat against his back, now cold and alone.

Chris sits on his side for a minute, probably having some internal battle of his own. Then he clears his throat and gives Stiles’ shoulder a gentle rock.

“Stiles,” He says gruffly.

Stiles plays his part, flipping onto his belly and groaning into his pillow, whining about being woken up.

“Com’on, kiddo. Time to hunt an Alpha.”

Stiles’ heart constricts.  _ Kiddo.  _ Chris’ seldom-used endearment. He mostly uses it when he’s had too much drink, followed by scruffing up his hair. This time, it hits different.

He turns to his back and sits up, looking at Chris for the first time. He looks… apprehensive. Stiles gives him a tired smile.

“Yeah, let’s hunt this fucker.”

Chris grins back at him.

\- - -

Deucalion proves easy to find. They have word from another hunter staking out the town that residents keep mentioning a visitor in one of the nicer neighborhoods. It wouldn’t have usually come under their radar if not for the fact that it was mentioned he had an English accent.

It’s not much to go on, but it’s the only lead they have. Stiles was expecting to be scoping out some defunct warehouse, but of course Deucalion would hide in plain sight, renting a house weekly that probably cost more than his father made in a month.

Chris and Stiles rent a car and drive around the neighborhood. They roll their windows down and Chris drives slow while Stiles squints at the house numbers.

It’s not long before a passerby takes pity.

“You look lost,” He says with a bright smile. “What number are you looking for?”

“Not really sure,” Stiles says with a shy grin. “My buddy’s renting a house here, I don’t reckon you know him? He’s English.”

The guy lights up.

“Oh, you mean Mr. Srebro! Yeah, cool guy.”

Stiles feels his stomach drop.  _ Srebro.  _ Deucalion knows they’re here, is fucking with them. Stiles clears his throat and fights to keep the smile on his face.

“That’s the one.”

“You must be the folks he was talking about, coming to visit him. Buddies from Beacon Hills, he said. He’s been pretty excited to see you!”

“You and him pretty close then?” Stiles asks, grinning through his teeth.

“Aw, he’s a nice guy. Befriended nearly the whole neighborhood this past month!” The man waves his arm, gesturing around him.

“Sounds like ol’ Duke,” Stiles replies. “Well, we’re totally lost. Could you point me in his direction?”

“Oh, sure thing!”

The man gives them directions and Stiles thanks him before they drive away.

“Wait, where are you going?” Stiles says when Chris goes right instead of left.

“We’re leaving. He’s been waiting for us, Stiles. Hiding in plain sight. I don’t like it.”

“Turn around,” Stiles replies. “He’s going to know we’re here, so we might as well play his game.”

Chris stops in the middle of the dead street, looking at Stiles and arching a brow.

“What did you have in mind?”

\- - -

Stiles knocks on the door three times and waits impatiently, shuffling from foot to foot.

“Stop fidgeting,” Chris says under his breath.

_ “You _ stop fidgeting,” Stiles retorts. Chris kicks the side of his shoe, and Stiles elbows him in the ribs.

The door opens, and there he is. 

Deucalion.

“Chris, Stiles!” He says in feigned delight, baring his teeth in a grin. “It’s been too long. Tell me, how is Victoria doing?”

The quick, callous jab makes both of them twitch and cringe. Deucalion isn’t wasting any time poking the bear.

Stiles takes a step forward, momentarily forgetting that he’s facing an Alpha.

“Listen here, you son of a-”

“Janice! How are the kids?” Deucalion interrupts, looking past Stiles and waving with a smile. Stiles turns to see a middle-aged woman speed walking past them with weights in her hand.

“Eating me out of house and home, Duke,” she says with a laugh, not slowing her pace. “These your friends from SoCal?”

“Indeed they are. Until next time, love!”

She giggles and winks, well on her way down the street. Stiles and Chris turn back to him.

“We get it,” Chris growls, “you’re using the folks in this community as insurance because you’re a coward.”

“You wound me!” Deucalion claps a hand over his chest in mock insult. “I would never be so  _ devious.” _ He smiles wide, baring too-pointed teeth and flashing the red of his eyes. “So, are you coming in?”

Stiles is itching to pull out his gun and put a bullet between the werewolf’s eyes, regardless of who sees.

“Let’s go, we’re not going to get anywhere,” Chris says, stepping backwards. Stiles lingers, letting hate and rage and anger seethe from his glare, wishing looks could kill. Deucalion only chuckles, leaning in close to Stiles. A part of him wants to flinch away, but he resists. Deucalion won’t hurt him. Not in broad daylight. He’s just as bound the law as they are.

“I can’t wait,” He whispers into Stiles' ear, “to hold your beating chambers in the palm of my hand.”

The words send an involuntary chill down his spine, and he hates it. Deucalion pulls away, an easy, lazy grin on his face.

“I am going to slaughter you,” Stiles says coldly. He’s never felt rage like this before. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and unnerving.

Deucalion only winks and closes his front door, leaving them standing on his porch. Stiles turns and marches past Chris, not waiting for him. He gets into the Tahoe and slams his door shut. Chris climbs in after him and starts the car without a word. They drive through town and to the cabin. Stiles looks out the window for the hour-long drive, lost in his thoughts.

When they get to the cabin, Chris parks the car and turns it off, but doesn’t move. They sit in further silence for a long minute.

“Stiles-” Chris starts. 

“I want him to suffer,” Stiles interjects, turning to look at Chris.

“That’s not how we do things,” Chris says. His words are just that though, words. They lack conviction.

“I don’t care. I want him to hurt. I want him to regret hunting down my family.  _ Me.  _ I want him to die slowly. I want him to know that he fucked up.”

Stiles is shaking. He opens and closes his hands, trying to stave off the tremors. He’s surprised when Chris reaches out, clasping his left hand with both of his own. They’re rough and warm and send a sense of calm through Stiles.

“He will. I promise you that.” Chris holds his gaze, and Stiles doesn’t want to look away. “But we have to be smart about it. He has the protection of civilians. I’m not going to put an innocent in danger.”

“But he  _ would,” _ Stiles says in frustration. “He’s making rules that we can’t break, but he can. It’s uneven playing ground.”

“We’ll figure it out. And when we do, he’s as good as dead.”

\- - -

Midnight finds them camped out in the small forested area behind Deucalion's temporary home.

“Stiles,” Chris whispers, “we need to go back. This isn’t going to work.”

“You said I could spearhead this,” He whispers back, not taking his eyes off of the dark house. “He clearly isn’t afraid. He won’t expect us to break in and attack him in his own den.”

“Yeah, because it’s a ridiculously  _ stupid _ idea. Even if he wouldn’t expect it, he’s a werewolf. He’ll hear you before you step foot inside. He’ll tear you to pieces.”

“I’d like to see him fucking try.”

Stiles takes off, out of the woods and across the dark yard. He hears Chris yell-whisper his name, but he ignores it. He can  _ do  _ this.

He gets to the back door and gets to work on the lock. Picking locks had been one of the first non-combat skills that Chris had wanted to train Stiles in. Of course, Stiles has been able to pick locks since he was twelve. Now, he can pick locks even better.

He’s mildly surprised that no alarms go off when he quietly opens the door, but of course a werewolf wouldn’t need one. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and steps inside.

\- - -

Stupid. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid. _

Chris can’t believe that he let Stiles talk him into this plan. Stiles had been so confident, so  _ sure  _ that it will work, Chris had believed it too. Now, he’s certain that he’s sent his nephew to his death.

_ Nephew. _

Chris scoffs at himself as he gets into position. He hasn’t really thought of that boy as a  _ nephew  _ for a while now. At first he thought it was his way of mourning Victoria, pining after his charge. Taking notice in how his body had developed, the thin layer of fat trimmed from lean muscle as their training stretched from weeks to months. The way he beamed when Chris praised him. Enjoying the attention when Stiles drank him in with hungry eyes when he thought Chris wasn’t looking.

But it hadn’t been that, had it? He and Victoria were never more than glorified business partners. He had been faithful to her, but only out of a sense of duty. They were friends. Associates. Fuckbuddies. But never lovers.

He enters the back door to the house next door. The owners are away, a stroke of luck that Stiles had wheedled out of the chatty neighbors. A quick call to a friend who works security for the company they use had disconnected their system.

He makes his way to the second floor, as fast and quietly as he can. Stiles should be attempting to get Deucalion into position now.

Or he could be dead.

Chris’ stomach twists in his gut when unbidden images of Stiles, torn up and bloody, flash before his mind’s eye. He swallows down the rise of bile and forces himself into his hunter mindset.

Neutralize the threat.

His gun is easy enough to set up. He would have liked to set it up ahead of time, but they couldn’t risk Deucalion catching wind of their plan. He sets the sniper up in record time and peers through the sight, looking from window to window.

_ There. _

Chris’ heart constricts when he sees blood on the carpet through the living room window. Chris curses under his breath. This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to go. He hopes to god that Stiles isn’t dead.

His phone starts to ring and he nearly jumps. It’s Stiles.

“Stiles.”

“Chris, I fucked up. I’m sorry. You have to run-”

Stiles is cut off.

“Hello, Chris. Join us, why don’t you?” Deucalion’s voice rings through the receiver. “Or you could not, and I can keep toying with the final Srebro. I want this one to last. I bet it’ll be weeks before he finally succumbs to his injuries.”

He hears Stiles gasp in pain. Chris grips the phone so hard he’s afraid it will break.

“The front door is unlocked.”

The line goes dead. Chris is out of the house and over to Deucalion’s in twenty seconds. He hesitates at the door, then turns the handle.

\- - -

Stiles fucked up. He understands that now. He thought that it would work- they’d kill Deucalion, he’d fulfill some sort of twisted sense of destiny, and maybe figure out what was happening between him and Chris.

None of that will ever happen now.

He presses a hand against the front of his shoulder to try and staunch the bleeding. He’s in immense pain. Deucalion had come at him fast, and Stiles was stupid to think that he’d waste time with a big villain speech.

He’s slouched against the couch, where Deucalion had dragged him after the initial attack. A trail of his blood leaves tracks across the carpet and into the kitchen from where they came.

He wishes that Chris would just cut his losses and run. Understand that the plan isn’t going to work. Leave Stiles to die and try to take Deucalion down a different time. He knows that the look in Chris’ eyes is going to kill him if the blood loss doesn’t.

Deucalion waits patiently, leaned casually against the wall. He surveys Stiles, the bloody mess he’s made, with a sense of indifference.

When Stiles hears the front door open, his breath catches.  _ Chris.  _ Deucalion pushes himself off of the wall and cocks his head, likely listening to all of the things Stiles can't hear. Chris’ heartbeat, his breathing, every step he takes.

When Chris cautiously walks into the room, fresh tears spring from Stiles’ eyes. Not tears of pain, but tears of hurt. He doesn’t want Chris to see him like this.

Chris’ eyes dart from Deucalion to Stiles. He makes an aborted step to Stiles, but stops when Deucalion laughs, stepping forward to Chris. 

At least  _ one _ thing about tonight’s plan works.

“Isn’t it funny, how-”

Glass shatters, and Deucalion roars. He’s pushed back with the force of the bullet that tears through his shoulder, shot from the sniper rifle in the neighboring house.

His dad has always been a dead shot.

It had been difficult but not impossible to keep his father at an arm’s length while planning their assault, careful to not cross scents and tip Deucalion off. 

Chris pulls out his gun and makes to shoot Deucalion, but he's too fast. He ducks into the kitchen, out of sight. Chris stands still, gun trained on the door.

“Clever, Argent,” Deucalion wheezes from the kitchen. “Another hunter to take your place I presume?”

“More like my father, asshole,” Stiles yells back, gritting his teeth at the stabs of pain that radiate from his wound.

“No matter,” Deucalion says. Stiles can hear the strain in his voice. The fucker is  _ hurting. Good.  _ “The damage is done. You can either chase after me, get your kill, or spend Stiles’ final moments with him. Who knows. He might even let you put the bullet into him yourself.”

Stiles holds his tongue. If Deucalion knows what they did, shot him with a sleeper strain of wolfsbane that’ll have him undoubtedly dead in a week, they won’t make it out alive. If he knew how he fell into their trap so easily, how Stiles arguing with Chris was a ruse, how the only thing that went wrong in their plan was Deucalion injuring him, he’d probably tear them both to shreds before his father could put enough bullets into him to kill him.

The back door opens, and Stiles can’t hear the silent shots his dad is taking, but he’s sure that Deucalion dodges every single one. All according to plan. They don’t have time to deal with a body.

“Stiles,” Chris says once he’s sure they’re alone. He rushes over, touches Stiles’ face, arms, wherever he can reach. It’s adorable, Chris fussing over Stiles like that. “We need to get you out, now. How bad did he claw you?”

He goes to pry Stiles’ hand away from his shoulder, but Stiles doesn’t budge.

“Chris,” he pleas pitifully, finally letting his emotions show. “Please, Chris. I don’t wanna die.”

“You aren’t going to die, Stiles,” Chris growls, looking Stiles directly in the eye. “We’re going to patch you up and you’ll be fine.”

Stiles shakes his head, tears streaming down his face. Chris doesn’t know, doesn’t under _ stand.  _ For the first time since they met, Stiles is afraid of Chris. Afraid of what he might do.

Chris finally pries his hands free, ripping his shirt open to reveal the wound.

He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees it.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Stiles whispers, terror and fear written all over his face. Chris sucks his lips into his mouth, biting down on them. Unshed tears well in his eyes. He stares at the deep puncture wounds in Stiles’ shoulder. The  _ bite  _ wound.

“Aw hell, kid.”

John’s voice startles both of them. Chris turns and looks at the man, who’s ashen in the face and giving Chris a hard look.

“Argent. If you so much as lay a hand on my son-”

“No,” Chris interjects. “I won’t.” He turns back to Stiles and cups his cheek gently with a hand. Stiles leans into the touch, breathing ragged, pained breaths. “We’re going to figure this out.”

Sirens sound in the distance. They’re out of time. They need to leave. They were supposed to be gone right behind Deucalion. John and Chris help Stiles to his feet, and he shakes off their help.

“He didn’t bite me in the ass, dammit.”

He follows them to the back door, and they make a swift getaway.

\- - -

They don’t need to go back to the cabin. They’re high-tailing it out of California, staying in Colorado until they know Deucalion is dead. Stiles wishes he could see the life leave his eyes. Their plan had been hasty, and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Once his dad is sure that Chris won’t off him, he goes back to Beacon Hills. Chris and Stiles stay at a hotel, a single room with double beds and prepare to hunker down for the rest of the week.

Chris refuses to acknowledge Stiles’ bite. He bandages the wound and all he says is,  _ “we don’t know if it will take.”  _ They both know that the only other result would be death. Thinking about it makes Stiles’ stomach turn.

They finally go to bed at 10am, and Stiles wakes up a few hours later in agonizing pain. He feeling like his shoulder’s been branded with a hot iron. He screams and thrashes, and Chris slips into his bed, at his back, holding him around his middle and pinning his arms so he doesn’t hurt himself.

“You’re going to get through this,” He says into Stiles’ ear. “It’s just pain. Breathe with me.”

Stiles cries, and he tries to match the movement of Chris’ chest as he takes deep, even breaths. Eventually, exhaustion overtakes him and he slips into a fitful sleep. Chris stays close by, his body formed against Stiles’ and an arm kept wrapped around his waist protectively.

Stiles doesn’t miss the soft kiss he places behind Stiles’ ear when he thinks he’s asleep.

\- - -

The bite took. They both know it, but don’t talk about it. Pretend it’s not happening. They’ve been in the hotel for three days now. The bite had healed completely by the end of day two. Stiles watches his eyes in the bathroom mirror, switching between their normal honey tones and the golden hue of a beta. He fights to keep his claws from sprouting. He peels his lips back, running his tongue over sharp, elongated teeth. His senses shift, and he can hear Chris breathing in the room through the door. Hear his heartbeat.

He takes a deep breath and composes himself before stepping out of the bathroom. Chris is sitting at the head of his bed, legs stretched in front of him, tapping away on his laptop. Stiles sits next to him and mirrors the pose. He fights the pull to tuck his nose under Chris’ chin and take a deep breath.

His urges have been all over the place lately. He wants to run through the woods, eat half his weight in food, and most of all, cover Chris with his scent. He feels like a mindless animal and he hates it. And yet… he can control himself. Sure, he  _ has _ urges, but he can choose not to indulge in them.

This whole ordeal has been changing how he thinks about werewolves, and the supernatural in general. Surely if he can control himself, there must be others. Creatures who just want to blend in with society and live in peace.

“Any news?” Stiles asks Chris, pressing their shoulders together. He craves any touch he can get. Chris either doesn’t care or pretends to ignore it. They haven’t talked about anything- about the three nights they spent in the same bed, the tender moments they shared, the fact that Stiles is most definitely a  _ werewolf. _

“Not since last night. He’s getting sloppy,” Chris replies. They’ve been using their network of hunters to keep track of Deucalion. Things aren’t looking good for the Alpha. Several have asked to take the kill shot, but under Stiles’ orders they haven’t. As long as he isn’t hurting anyone, Stiles wants him to suffer. Die slowly.

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but pauses. Something… something is happening. A small whimper escapes his lips. 

“Stiles?” Chris asks, immediately on alert.

“Something’s wrong,” Stiles gasps. Pressure is building in his head and his chest. His senses go into overdrive. Everything is too loud, too bright, too fragrant.

He clambers off the bed and falls to his knees, one hand anchoring him on the floor and the other clutched to his chest.

“Stiles!” Chris rounds the bed and kneels in front of him, gripping his head with both hands and forcing Stiles to look at him. “Talk to me.”

“It feels- it’s too much,” Stiles strains. He feels like he’s being overloaded. Too much, too fast.

His vision shifts, from human to predator. But it’s different this time. More defined. Deeper colors. He sees surprise bloom across Chris’ features. Smells the relief and fear roll off of him in clashing waves. 

“Deucalion’s dead,” Chris whispers, a small smile on his lips.

“How- how do you know?” Stiles is having a hard time concentrating through his senses going into overdrive. He feels- he feels amazing. He feels better than he’s ever felt before.

“Your eyes, Stiles. Your eyes shine red.”

Stiles blood runs cold. Just as fast as it started, any good feeling leaves his body. He sits back on his heels and stares into Chris’ eyes. They can’t ignore the truth any longer.

“What are we going to do?” Stiles whispers in terror. “What I am, it’s not allowed. It can’t be allowed.”

Being a werewolf was bad enough. They were going to have to deal with it, but Stiles was fine with pretending it wasn’t an issue. But now? He’s a fucking  _ Alpha.  _ That’s not something they can just sit on.

Chris is going to kill him. He has to. If he doesn’t, other hunters will get wind of it and kill them both.

“I can do it,” Stiles says slowly, making up his mind. “ if it means protecting you.”

Chris knows where he’s heading. 

“Stiles, no. I’m not gonna let you-”

Stiles interrupts him by lunging forward, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and pulling him forward. He presses their lips together, hungry and desperate. If he has to die, he’s kissing Chris first. 

Chris makes a small nose of surprise but doesn’t push him away, doesn’t try to break off. He kisses Stiles like he’s been aching to do it, just as feverish as Stiles is.

They eventually part to catch their breath.

“Stiles,” Chris says breathlessly, pressing their foreheads together. “We will get through this. I’m not going to let  _ anything  _ happen to you.”

Stiles finally gives in to his base urges, unable to stop himself. He stuffs his face into the crook of Chris’ neck, inhaling deeply and rubbing the tip of his nose against the rough stubble.

“Chris,” He rumbles. It’s a noise in his chest, that vibrates through him and up his throat, out of his mouth. An animalistic sound, a noise that speaks of ownership. Chris is his as much as he is Chris’. 

He knows that he’s in a new, fourth part of his life now. Not defined by before and after the Bite, but before Chris was his and after.

\- - -

News spreads through the hunter and supernatural communities alike over the next few months. 

A hunter turned Alpha, with his hunter companion by his side. Both communities are in an uproar about it. It isn’t  _ right.  _ However, it's quickly made clear by anyone who opposes them that they aren’t to be trifled with. They display a level of kindness towards innocent supernaturals which has never been seen by hunters before. To the ones who mean harm, they deliver quick, unyielding justice.

Stiles thinks it’s a little weird when their names precede them. Strange, when supernaturals are willing to team up if it means taking down a dangerous foe. He finds that he falls easily into the role though. He likes it this way, feels more like he’s truly helping than he did before.

It hadn’t been easy, learning to control his new body. He’d been so terrified for his first full moon that he forced Chris to bound him with wolfsbane chains that burned his skin. It proved pointless though, when his wolven half pushed forward for the first time and wanted nothing more than to turn his belly to Chris.

Chris was his anchor. His sanity. His true tie to his humanity. With Chris, he felt like everything would be okay.

It was.


End file.
